The Quiet One Is Often Guilty
by battyderp
Summary: It seemed to people that Thomas Cromwell was not in the least bit vulnerable; that if you peeled back his skin you would surely find a thick layer of iron. But that was not the case. Especially when it came to the precious daughters he had lost all those years ago... One-shot.


_A/N: Hello, my darlings! So, I've had this idea in my head for a while, but I only just got around to writing it up yesterday. I wrote it in about 15 minutes, in front of the TV, and I had to stop every so often because I was crying. Whoops. _

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Review if you like aha. (;_

_xx_

He had been expecting another one of the Princess Mary's carers. Or, considering the way Queen Jane and her step-daughter had exchanged sly, yet rather nervous glances, perhaps a banished courtier they had conspired to bring back. Mary Boleyn? No, they wouldn't have dared.

Thomas Cromwell had been wrong on all accounts, but one: the person that did walk in had been more-or-less banished, even if His Majesty hadn't explicitly said so.

As the Princess Elizabeth stumbled into the room, trying her hardest to walk regally but being hindered by her dress, everyone present inhaled in surprise, and perhaps relief. A few had deigned to think the child was dead, poisoned by the King because of the infidelities of the mother she had scarcely known. But Thomas did not suck in a breath for any of those reasons – no, far from it. The smile faded from his lips, his eyes glazed over, his muscles tensed, not because it was the King's daughter that entered, but because of who she reminded him of.

The last time he had seen her, she had just been able to string together a jumbled sentence of lisping words, playing with her mother beside a small pond as they watched the fishes, the little girl playing with Anne's mahogany locks and eventually falling asleep in her arms so the Queen had carried her back to her chambers, smiling sadly and gently kissing Elizabeth's forehead. They had been visible from Thomas' office, but as he had watched them, the thought hadn't occurred to him.

Now, however, the memories were almost enough to knock him clean off his feet. The change in his demeanour was barely noticeable: a slight softening of his hardened features, the small crease between his eyebrows as he frowned, his lips parted slightly. He had mastered the art of keeping his emotions just for himself; smiling when inside he was seething, and the like. Or when his heart was breaking all over again.

He hardly heard the King address his daughter. Thomas' eyes were fixated on Elizabeth's loose hair. It was clear it would darken to become a fiery red, but at that moment it seemed golden, like the sun. His little girl, Anne, had been blessed with fair hair – it had been rather a surprise, considering both of her parents' hair was dark. She had always been his favourite in his heart, thought he tried his absolute hardest do deny that fact. He loved both of his darling daughters equally, he had told himself.

Thomas swallowed hard as memories flooded back to him, memories he hadn't allowed himself to dwell on. After their deaths, he had locked himself away for a day. Just a day. But after that day, he had vowed to never let himself weaken ever again, to keep their memory pristine and beautiful forever more, like they had been when God had taken them. He hadn't spent enough time with them. Christ, not nearly enough. Had they even known his name? Yes, of course. Grace had murmured it when she had awoken from her slumber induced by the sweating sickness that had finally claimed her. Their carer had told him they cried for him some days. He had been shocked. Cried? Over him? He was not worthy of their tears, not worthy of calling himself their father.

He remembered sitting in his study at Austin Friar's. He had just been able to hear Lizzie's gentle murmuring as she guided herself through the steps of silk-work from where she sat in the other room. The sound had been comforting, like a lullaby. But he had shaken the thoughts from his head as he had turned back to the book he had been studying. Then the door had creaked slightly. He had scarcely registered the sound, too absorbed by the text he had been reading. Then, suddenly, a light feather-weight had fallen on his shoulders, two tiny hands fastening around his neck.

At first, the instincts he had obtained in the army and as a mercenary and simply growing up in Putney and with Walter's abuse in general had almost kicked in, but then the familiar scent of lavender and cloth had hit his nostrils and he had let out a rumbling laugh, accompanied by Grace's shrill giggling as he had gently secured his hands on her small shoulders and pulled her entire body over his head so she ended up seated on his lap.

"What can I do for you, my little Angel?" he had asked softly, landing a light kiss on her silky hair.

Grace had shrugged, turning away from him so she could run one hand down the pages of the thick book, her other warm little hand still clutching the back of his neck. "What are you reading, papa?"

Where other fathers would have brushed off the question by simply telling them it was nothing they could possibly understand, Thomas had let out a deep sigh, feigning exhaustion, and leaned forward, rearranging Grace to sit on his other knee. "Well, Cardinal Wolsey has had a little bit of trouble lately, and I've been entrusted with getting him out of it. I trained as a lawyer, did you know, Your Grace?"

She had giggled gleefully at the affectionate nickname he had given her many moons ago, though he hadn't been sure she had entirely understood what it meant. But that hadn't mattered in the slightest; hearing her laughter was enough for him, and she would learn soon enough. He hadn't wanted to rush her out of a childhood too soon, as Walter had done to him. Bitterness had crept upwards inside him at the thought, but he had pushed it down. "I am ever so proud to have you as my father," she had told him, leaning back so her head had rested under his chin, looking up at him with a small smile, "I think all the other children are beside themselves and positively green with envy."

He remembered thinking, _if only that were true._ They hadn't known all the things he had done. But he had smiled nevertheless, flattered and warmed by the compliment paid by his precious jewel. "Just as I am sure they envy your beauty, dove." Envy was a sin, indeed, but what was one more sin after so many?

Grace had waved her hand dismissively, already acting like royalty. He had been able to envision her in a crown. "I wish to learn Greek, papa."

"Greek?" He had raised his eyebrows in surprise, brushing hair out of her eyes so she would turn to face him. "And pray, why Greek, out of all the languages?"

"No one knows Greek," she had replied simply with another little shrug. "I will be special. And I want to be special, like you."

Thomas had chuckled, wrapping his arms around her and cocooning her in a loving embrace. "You could not be more special."

And, indeed, he had hired her a tutor to teach her Greek. She had been progressing nicely when she had…

Thomas' breath faltered as he was brought back to the present, raising a hand to run his fingers through his hair distractedly, in an effort to rid himself of the painful memories. Thankfully, it seemed as though no one noticed. If anyone had been able to see what went on in his mind in that moment, they wouldn't have believed they had been his own memories. They only saw the cold Cromwell. The calculating Cromwell. The Cromwell that signed the death warrants of perfect strangers and ripped Queens from their thrones.

They didn't see the Thomas Cromwell that had loved his daughters more than anything on Earth, and still did. More than God, more than life. They didn't see the Cromwell that hurt.

And they never would. Because as the Princess Elizabeth took her rightful place on His Majesty's knee, Thomas Cromwell broke into a smile and clapped along with the rest of the court.


End file.
